NINE OF HEARTS pt3
by PhantasmoftheOpera
Summary: A milton Dammers love story.


Dammers was silent for a long time after Sarah stopped speaking. Pulling himself up to lean against the headboard, he considered the story she'd just finished telling. At length he gazed down and met her expectant eyes. "Why," he began thoughtfully, then amended, "no. . . . When did you decide to offer this course of action to me? If you knew about the ritual for four years...?" His eyes took on a faraway cast. "Four years. . ."

Sarah gently placed her hand over his mouth and smiled slightly. "No, don't start with the numbers, please?" She sighed when he jerked back in irritation. Regarding him seriously, she propped herself up on one elbow. "I had it in the back of my mind all along. Hence all the research I did into your life. I was trying to figure out why the Powers were so adamant that you live."

"And?"

She shrugged, frustrated. "I don't know! But I finally made the decision to help you myself. I knew they wouldn't, no matter how much they insisted you weren't supposed to die. After that, it was a matter of waiting for the perfect opportunity to present itself. Do you realize that there are only three or four full moon Fridays in any given year?"

Nodding slowly, Dammers attempted to organize the incoherent thoughts ceaselessly spinning in his mind. After careful consideration, he asked, "I think I know the answer to this, but would you care to explain why you suggested I kill your roommates?"

I should have known he wouldn't let it drop, Sarah thought. "The short explanation is that they were my cousin's children. The granddaughters of the aunt who had me committed. They were also the means to an end."

Dammers stood abruptly and began pacing, marveling at the girl's ability to evade the actual question. "The means to what end?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Sit down."

"I prefer to stand," he replied stiffly.

Sarah sighed wearily. "Then at least stop pacing, all right? It makes me nervous." When he grudgingly consented to stand still beside the bed, she continued. "Sandra and Jacki were told about me before their mother died. They were told that I was the shame of the family, that I had been the truly dangerous type. Years before my death, I tried to tell my family who the really dangerous one was, but they didn't believe a word I said. Nobody ever told Sandy or Jacki who else they happen to be related to." She paused as realization began to dawn in Dammers' eyes. "You see, our branch of the family was named West, but my mother's cousin's name was Bartlett."

Dammers took a small step back. "You mean. . .?"

"Johnny Bartlett was my second cousin. I know this is going to sound like superstitious nonsense, but his bad blood was passed down through the generations. Sometimes it skips a generation or two, but it's always there. Sandra and Jacki were the end of the family line. It had to end with them, before another Johnny was born."

"If that's true, why didn't you kill them years ago?"

Sarah bit her lip and considered. "It wasn't time. The Powers wouldn't permit it while I was under their thumb. Then after that. . ." she trailed off, willing the right words to come. "I was waiting for the right time; waiting for everything to fall into place. I believe this is the way it was supposed to happen."

Dammers decided to accept her explanation for the moment, knowing it was the most direct answer he would ever get out of her. Allowing the subject to drop, he instead turned his attention to the following night's conclusion of the ritual. He sat at the foot of the bed as Sarah pulled herself upright and leaned toward him slightly. He hesitated for a period, then asked, "What happens tomorrow night?"

She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "Tomorrow night you lure the ninth victim to the woods, where I'll be waiting with the other hearts. You kill him, then I finish the ritual. You do realize that you'll need to set up a new identity, don't you?"

He ignored the last statement. "But who is the ninth?"

Taking a deep breath and lifting her head to meet his intense stare, Sarah smiled ruefully. "The ninth sacrifice is to be somebody you have a personal vendetta against."

Dammers grew very still. "The only person around here that I have a vendetta against would be-" he broke off as the last pieces fell into place. He stared questioningly at the girl. She nodded, pleased that he'd figured it out. Dammers let out a small mirthless laugh and shook his head.

"Frank Bannister."

While Sarah slept, Dammers wandered anxiously from room to room. His mind was filled with half-formed plans of the next night's events, not the least of which was luring Frank Bannister into the woods. He couldn't help but wonder how in the hell he was supposed to accomplish that. He shook his head, the scenario playing itself out in his head. Excuse me, Frank? I wondered if you'd like to follow me into the woods tonight. Why do I ask? Well, because I truly despise being dead, and if I kill you tonight, I'll be alive again. So, what do you say? He rolled his eyes, laughing humorlessly. Yes, I'm sure that would work. After all, honesty is the best policy. Frustrated, he peered out the front window to the street below, where two spirits chased one another, each clearly trying to annihilate the other. Watching their fight, Dammers slowly smiled with satisfaction as the seeds of a real plan were planted in his mind.

With this problem solved, his remaining anxieties intensified in their need for solutions, as if to fill the empty space in his catalogue of worry. Next in line was a serious commitment phobia. Highly aware of how absurd the situation was, Dammers still found himself wondering what the girl's expectations of their relationship (he had to groan at his use of that word) would be after tomorrow night. Hell, he wasn't even sure what his own expectations were. He felt sappy and weak for dwelling on the matter, but the truth was, he'd gotten used to being around Sarah. The thought of being alone again actually depressed him a bit. He realized that he would have to start over with a new identity in a new town, and he doubted that she would be eager to pack up and leave Fairwater to be with him. Every fiber of his being begged to be relieved at this, but even so, a twinge of disappointment followed at the prospect of leaving her behind. Especially after what had happened earlier that night. . . . Annoyed by his feelings, he shook his head to clear it of the memory. He still couldn't believe how easily he'd let himself be seduced. Although he couldn't deny that he'd enjoyed it, as much as he wished he could. Sex and killing were very closely related in his mind: he found both to be a sick, shameful thrill. Despite his declaration to Sarah that he wasn't a murderer, he had killed before. He recalled the summer he'd turned twelve, and the feel of his hands around the throat of the neighbor's cat. The memory of sightless glassy blue eyes and white cat fur stuck to his sweaty palms was still crystal-clear in his mental scrapbook. He remembered that after strangling the animal he'd locked himself in his bathroom and masturbated for twenty minutes straight, with cat fur still clinging to his hands. It was a recollection that still sent uncomfortable chills of excitement and arousal down his spine.

Thinking of the cat brought to mind other more unpleasant memories, and Dammers made a conscious effort to turn his mind from them. Remembering his childhood was too damn depressing and in his opinion, served no purpose in what was to come. Still, the memories refused to be suppressed, and he fought to push them back to the locked room in his mind where he kept everything he didn't want to think about.

Finally his thoughts returned to the ritual, bringing with them a fluttering in his stomach. While he was fairly certain that Frank Bannister wouldn't question the story he planned on weaving, he was worried that the man would notice how his body had almost completely regenerated and grow suspicious. Taking stock of his current physical condition, Dammers realized that he was now in fact entirely solid. The only remaining ghostly aspect about him was the faint blue luminance around him, and even that was barely perceptible. At this rate, he wondered if he would be visible to the living world by morning. Even if that turned out to be the case, he supposed he would still need to complete the ritual to ensure his status. He would hate to be turned into a pile of dust or ash, or something like that. Considering the weird shit he'd seen and done lately, he no longer thought such things to be completely out of the realm of possibility. No, there could be no turning back now that he'd come this far.

Morning broke in shades of grey over Fairwater. Holloway Road was deserted at this early hour, echoing the cries of birds who would no longer fly over the woods. The piles of bird corpses that had fallen around the gnarled old tree were now little more than skeletons; their flesh having been absorbed into the ground. The flow of blood down the trunk had ceased, leaving the surrounding earth running with streams of red. As the blood soaked into the ground, burned patches of grass appeared in the streams' wake. These burned strips were slowly forming themselves into a pattern that would be obvious come nightfall. Meanwhile, the woods trembled in anticipation of the full moon, and the clouds finally broke, allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through the leaves.

The day passed with agonizing slowness for Dammers. At some point amidst his impatience, he discovered he could no longer pass through solid objects. Unfortunately, this knowledge came when he attempted to walk through a wall and only succeeded in crashing into it face-first. Feeling foolish, he was surprised when his nose began to bleed from the impact. Approaching this latest development from the scientific viewpoint, he had to wonder how it was possible since he detected no heartbeat in his chest. After puzzling over it awhile, he eventually dismissed his curiosity as a futile endeavor and resumed counting down the hours until Sarah's return.

Sunset came and went with no sign of Sarah. As Dammers began to feel he was on the verge of bursting from nerves, however, the front door opened and she walked in, weighted down by a heavy book. Unable to contain the nervous fire within himself any longer, he exploded, "Where the hell have you been? I expected you back an hour ago! Do you know what happened today? My nose bled. Now, would you care to explain how that's possible?"

Locking the door behind her and setting the book on the couch, Sarah couldn't help but smirk. "You bled? What did you do, walk into the wall?" Seeing the expression on his face, she laughed out loud. Priceless. "Hey, I did the same thing. Forgot a basic rule of the living: one solid object will not pass through another. As for how the bleeding is possible, I haven't a clue. Chalk it up to one of death's little mysteries, I suppose."

Rolling his eyes at the pun, Dammers grumbled, "You're certainly in a good mood." Then, a little louder, "Can we get on with this, please?"

He seriously needs to develop a sense of humor, Sarah thought, losing her smile. That's the first thing we'll have to work on. That and his hair. "No reason not to. You go get Bannister and meet me in the woods by Holloway Road."

Dammers started to walk through the door, then caught himself and reached for the doorknob. "Where in the woods will you be?"

Feeling her previous good humor creep back in, Sarah smiled knowingly. "Oh, trust me, you'll have no trouble finding me. You'll see."


End file.
